


In a Name

by Mamarralun



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabble, Modern Character in Thedas, Multi, Names, didn't see that coming lmao, lil bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 05:12:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11571033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mamarralun/pseuds/Mamarralun
Summary: Lavellan. A name, a title, a person. A hundred ways people say her name, mean her name.





	In a Name

Lavellan. It falls so neatly from the whole Inquisition's lips, each pronunciation, each syllable, each person telling her something different. She hears them all.

The Orlesian troops give it that soft, nasally n at the end, a whisper, a prayer on the tongue. They say it like they feel it- within them, resolute. A lofty, flaming beacon that all are drawn to, a trinket sometimes, an icon others, and a Herald before all else. They follow their faith dutifully, the image of a flaming woman, a flaming sword, a flaming, unshakable belief, a burning anchor- it does not matter- it guides them deep into battle, cold nights, hot broth. The chant on their tongues, her name following directly afterwards. Lavella(n).

The Ferelden ones emphasize the V, bold in the middle, a stark consonant showing through the rest of the name. Their view is not wholly dissimilar to the Orlesians, but the execution is one in its own. A rising star, blazing- yes, but out of an endless darkness. The blight, a probable apocalypse. The mark shining, daring anything to try and squash its light. They say it like they see it- bolded, in reports, in letters home, in banners. A Herald, sure- but an unshakable tenacity. A leader, a chance. Her name from start to finish is strong, capable. Inquisitor Lavellan. La **v** ellan.

The Freemarchers lilt through the "ell" in it, voices flowing from here to there, neither here nor there. They are used to turmoil- tired, ridden with it, as if the states are natural hotspot for the worst of human behavior. They say it like they know it- a story to be told, a chip to offer, a way forward. Her name flits off their tongues, barely believing, but ready, spilling forth at a moment's notice. A bit of gossip, a potential fix in a broken state- no matter how temporary it may be. They can't afford to ignore it- but they do not flinch at the work to come. Resolute, but ready, no matter the outcome. Lav _ell_ an.

-

"Levell-en," 

There is no "Herald" or "Inquisitor" when Cassandra uses her name. Though the Seeker prefers to use titles most of the time, when it is only Lavellan, it is only Lavellan. Strong and resolute, her very name a wall. A Hero, but not. Every Hero is a person- flaws or not, idealized, but recognized. Her name is metered, drumlike. Called forth from the deepest parts of Cassandra's lungs, bellowed but soft, strong but vulnerable. Chosen. Flawed. To many, Cassandra's way would seem contradictory- but through experience, time and time again, the muscle memory of her arms, her actions, her brain, the surety in herself, and yet the guidance she needs from others, from faith- she knows they are all true. Her name is power, Levell-en, and it is used sparingly. Someone to draw strength from. 

-

"Lav- **ehllen**!" 

Joy spills from Varric's lips. It is fabricated, sometimes- but less often now. It's said somewhat similarly to the other Freemarchers under the Inquisitions care- the weariness, the dare to hope. Varric's contains the dare to become close. A story to tell, but can he survive it? Can any of them survive it? Happiness despite it. Syllables that urge the best out of her, help her rise to each occasion. Sometimes the first syllable falling behind, not thinking himself worthy of the life he leads now. Held back by memories, knowledge that is too much to bear. It puts the rest of them ahead, leaving him behind, in hopes they will flourish, yet hopes that they will carry him despite wanting nobody to see he can be weak. A pronunciation that shows he knows she will pick him up every time. Lav- **ehllen**. A (Herald?)- someone to look after, to be looked after by. 

-

"La-v-ellen?" 

It's spoken as though the slight nasal roll of the n at the end can be hidden, by Blackwall. Like old feelings, old secrets, new hurts, new causes. It is intentional, but not. There are no secrets between them anymore, but Blackwall is a man of habit. He says her name like a habit. As if he can get used to it, used to her, used to forgiveness. As if he can speak it enough to find its weight, its significance within him. Deep within, there is hope, that she is able to save him, make him the man he has tried to be for so many years, that she is everything he needs. The hidden pronunciation of the n falls out of his mouth, reaching for that feeling. An overcompensation through the V to be someone he thinks he is not. The capability to feel instead of trying fruitlessly to see, the hope to grow roots once more. La-v-ellen. Work to be done. 

-

"Lav-el-en," 

Each syllable is direct, shortened, yet whispered by Cole. To the point- because he sees her as more. There is no point in dragging out the name, saying it as if it is more than it is, because it isn't more, she is. He is? The urge to be more, to feel more, to see more, to understand. Just as he is Cole more than Compassion, but still both, she is more her, she is more Laranni than Lavellan, and yet both. She shines like a shadow against the sun, all contrast, shades of grey losing significance. Simple and complex all at once, thankful, smiling, questioning, learning. Helping. Lav-el-en. He wants to learn. 

-

"La- _vellen_." 

Her name is drawled from Dorian's ever-smirking mouth. Familiarity. It's said like coming home after a long journey, leagues of emotion laced through each piece, but light enough to show not every moment must be heavy. A symphony of emotion. Followed by words and words, so it is buried deep beneath snark and knowledge, but she hears it every time. He knows she does. Finding home in another heart, but knowing duty awaits. Heavy emphasis on the beginning, ready to hash out the later details when the time comes- but always wondering, too. Executing what must be- details evolving as needed. Changing, unchangeable. Falling before thinking, for once. La- _vellen_. Family.

-

"La **v** - _elh_ en" 

Spoken with a true mix of his Ferelden heritage, and Freemarcher residence, Cullen's way of speaking her name is decidedly firm- the sharp v running with a slight lilt through the name. Or, at least, he believes it is. It's exasperated half the time, thankful and working hard the other half of it- near soft in revelation- he knows little about explaining himself, empathizing with himself and others. Resilience so heavy, recovery so difficult, and redemption so far it takes his very breath from him. The knowledge she believes in him, the feeling of her support dragging him out of the chair to take time for himself, every now and then. Having a past, acknowledging it, knowing you can do little to make things right, and moving on. The fall of Haven, the victory at Halamshiral and Adamant, the near-destruction of clan Lavellan. War, sacrifice, enduring, knowing. La **v** - _elh_ en. A future. 

-

"Lavell-ihn!" 

Rare to hear it from The Iron Bulls' lips. More referring to her clan than her- actually, the word foreign on his tongue. More a concept, a role, than the woman in front of him. Unconsciously applying form where there is none, but slipping it by, raucous, in a way that doesn't make people think. Doesn't make him think, as much. Weary at some turns, balanced at others. Unprecedented freedom that he needs to learn to navigate, if only he'd see nothing is changed. Laranni, Lavellan. Laranni Lavellan. Both the same idea, but he hasn't grasped it yet. He's ready to. The sight of his Chargers after coming back from a failed dreadnought run. Dalish, avoiding her nature with a laugh. Grim, silent and knowing. Rocky, more ready than ever to find out black-powder's composition. Stitches, tending to Skinner after she got too close. Skinner herself, nearly laughing for once at the sorry sight of everyone. Krem's eyes furrowed in practice. Lavell-ihn. Horns pointing up. 

-

"Leh-vehll-(n),"

It rolls from Vivienne's mouth, each syllable calculated to hold the emotion she wants to convey, the flavor of the day. Her pronunciation mimics her Orlesian countrymen, but it's the only thing they truly hold in common. Vivienne's mouth is a viper's pit, yes- but poison is used most often in anti-venoms. Her words, her tones say less and less than her actions do- a truly concerned glance, a tug at an unfurling hem, and in the end, actually having a single plea. A single gossamer thread of a way out, one she knows will snap, but last moments that will give her substance, weight against reality. Moments of soft weakness unfurled between harsh words and pleasantries. Bracing the elements if it means a secure future, a mention on the right side of history, better still if she makes a difference. Leh-vehll-(n). A way to continue on. 

-

"La-vel-in,"

It's spoken like a story from Josephine. Every letter holds weight, meaning, if you'd only ask her. Bright, excited, exasperated, love in every syllable. Knowing the people around you support you, a beacon of kindness, knowing your troubles matter, even if they seem insignificant in the face of a hundred tragedies. That all different backgrounds can work in harmony, share a bit of gossip, truly know one another. Kind words that transform into unshakable, understandable orders. That there is always a chance for peace, always a way to find a calm retreat. A friend. La-vel-in. A chance to do the right thing.

-

"Levvy!"

Elfy, yeah? But knows which way's up, in Sera's language. Moments where she knows when to loosen up, when to give the reigns, when to acknowledge littler people won't get everything going on up here. That sometimes people just need a simple answer, a simple idea from something bigger. Knowing, begrudgingly, too, when to sober up. Spoken short, quick, an arrow in the face of the institution, even the Inquisition. But it needs it. She needs it, sometimes. The quickest way out of this shit-fest. Not always agreeing, but always knowing. Always accommodating. The taste of shitty cookies on shitty rooftops, healing shitty memories. Making something out of shitty bare-bones, nothing. Just to help. Yeah, Levvy. Something. 

-

"La-vell-eh(n),"

Said out of the corner of a half-smile, knowing, feeling, seeing- Leliana says her name. Her Orlesian accent is heavy, but a small peek of Ferelden shows itself in the cracks of the Spymaster between the beginning syllable and the V, in her name. She says a hundred things at once, each harder to discern- more than most can convey with a simple word. A past, hoping to be found and left behind all at once, unwavering loyalty, deeper even than her obligation to follow an Inquisitor's orders. A deep goodness within her, bursting from the seams of the word from her time with the Hero of Ferelden, hidden under layers and layers of Bard- Hand- Spymaster. The name is a salvation, a need to be free, an obligation to forget freedom, a wish to right the world, over and over and over again. A mantle, a person, a messenger. La-vell-eh(n). To lay down one's burdens. 

-

"La-vell- _ahn_ -" 

He doesn't say her clan-name much, anymore. Different from how everyone else pronounces it, like the way the Dalish would (Lavel-annh)- but, smoother, tongue wrapping around each syllable, and it slides from his mouth like a lie. She is no fool. Yet she is. She is, for him. Candied-sweet, he says it a hundred different ways, when the mood strikes him, letting it fall from his lips lightly, deeply, hoarsely, starvingly, quietly, restlessly, tiredly. Lovingly. The stars, the Fade, music, life in his eyes when he speaks- a light in the darkness, a chance of- ? Not being alone-not, feeling alone, not, enduring alone. Bottom lip trapped between his teeth when he reaches the middle of it, the brief catch of it reminding him of her, how quick, restless, excitable she is. Her name is knowledge on his lips, questions never unanswered, discussions ending only when others complain, a night spent talking until they find themselves in the Fade, laughing at the probable state of their bodies (hunched over in chairs, asleep on floors, Lavellan curled around him, legs twined with his-), before continuing the conversation they started awake. La-vell- _ahn_. His very heart itself.

-

Her name is pain. Abrupt endings, things he wishes could come to pass, a need to tell her, let her know, have her understand. Her very name oozes understanding, forgiveness, every vowel, every consonant screaming that she would know him, she would know him and keep him. And stop him. (Or help him, a dark part of him suggests- she would tear the Veil at his side and watch the world burn as they fell together, to reform again one day-stop- no-) Maybe she could surprise him, find a different solution- as if it were possible. As if this could end in any way but him dying alone, at fault of his own folly. La-vell- _ahn_. His impossibility.

La-vell- _ahn_. 

His Everything. 

-

She stands, bare of Elgar'nan's markings that once graced her face, looking over the Temple of Mythal. She knows- knows everything. She always has. Her life tumultuously changed by being thrown into a world she'd never known truly existed- had only seen through a screen. Falling for Solas anyways. Knowing it would come to pass. That knowledge not helping it hurt any less. His dismissal. His self-pity, his belief nothing could ever get better, that none of this could ever last. That nothing seems real to him. She is his Fool, as always, in the end- because she truly believes. He'll see. He has to- when she tells him. After the Temple... After the Temple. They'll face Corypheus one last time. He'll know, and he won't leave. They'll find a way for the veil to slowly descend, over a longer period of time. It won't kill him. It won't. 

Lavellan. A name, a clan thrust upon her, a cage, a freedom from her previous life. A knowledge of what is come to pass, a remnant of the Elvhen. A hope for the People, a hope for Thedas, a hardened battle-mage who had never killed before her arrival. Never even used magic before her arrival. Inquisitor. Lavellan. The one who is going to fucking save Thedas. Her. 

Lavella(n). La **v** ellan. Lav _ell_ an. Levell-en. Lav- **ehllen**. La-v-ellen. Lav-el-en. La- _vellen._ La **v** - _elh_ en. Lavell-ihn. Leh-vehll-(n). La-vel-in. Levvy. La-vell-eh(n). La-vell- _ahn._

A million voices speaking, shouting, praying her name.

She refuses to let them down. 


End file.
